


Apple Blossom Time

by Misschievously



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Gen, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-08-09 06:05:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7789537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misschievously/pseuds/Misschievously
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A glimpse of Napoleon Solo in 1944 and beyond. Original headcanon one-shot, rated T for mild language and some graphic violence.  Warning: contains graphic descriptions of war and a period-typical racial epithet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apple Blossom Time

Apple Blossom Time

 

 

"Can I get you boys anything?" 

"Well, if I can't have your phone number, I'll settle for some bourbon - but I wouldn't take offense to either." The young man looked up with a smile from his conversation with two other soldiers.

"Sure, my phone number is Betty," said Betty, putting a hand on her waist. 

A sudden burst of laughter from a nearby table momentarily drowned out the radio. Betty glanced over. A group of girls, all dolled up for the night out, had crowded around the bar. They twisted their fingers in their hair and twirled their skirts, smiling at the boys in uniform. The boys, most of them barely eighteen, smiled back and waited for the right song to come on for a dance, or the right girl to come on for a little leave fun.  But unlike the months before, there was an urgency in those sweet words and soft touches.

 

**April 1944**

 

“Betty’s a nice number,” the young man laughed, a sparkle in his startlingly blue eyes. Unlike the soldiers on either side of him, his hair wasn’t quite regulation length and his uniform had a different insignia on the shoulder. Betty tried, but couldn’t remember what it meant -  there had been so many to pass through lately. 

The soldier on the right - taller, a little older, and sandy-haired - shot him a disgusted look. “For Chrissake,” Sandy-Hair rose out of his seat deferentially and turned to Betty. “I’m sorry, miss. My brother was absent the day they handed out the manners. If we could have three bourbons please, we’d thank you for it.”

“Alright.” Betty’s expression softened a little. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed the youngest and blondest of the three soldiers by far, seated on the left. He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly and avoided her gaze. “What about him - he old enough for it?”

“Yes’m,” Sandy-Hair replied with a laugh. 

Betty shrugged. “Comin’ up, then!” She spun on her heel and disappeared into the throng of bodies crowding around the bar, but not without casting a discreet look back at the blue-eyed soldier,  who still smiled at her.

Sandy-Hair sat back down and cuffed the first soldier roughly on the temple. "Swear to God, Napoleon,” he growled, “is flirting just a reflex for you?"

Napoleon watched Betty disappear with a sigh and arched an eyebrow at him. "Really, Paul. And you think _ I  _ don’t have manners." 

“Manners, tact,” Paul ticked them off on his fingers, “any sense of propriety…”

"At least she didn't think you weren't old enough to have a drink," the youngest piped in, miserably. With a sigh, he struggled to light a cigarette only to have it deftly plucked from his lips. “Hey!”

Napoleon flashed a crooked smile and leaned back into his chair, inhaling deeply. He was good looking and he knew it, as did the several adjacent girls who gave him appreciative glances from the corners of their eyes, obviously hoping he’d ask them to dance at some point. Jimmy shot him an envious look. His brother had always seemed to know how to invite attention without so much as saying a word.

Napoleon handed the cigarette off to Paul, who also smiled as he took a deep drag. 

The blondest sat back in his chair with a huff. "Why you two always gotta rag on me, huh?" 

"We're older,” they chorused. 

“Nuts.” 

"Ah, don't worry, Jimmy,” Paul said sagely, “you'll find a nice girl. You're time will come.”

"Or there'll come a time..." Napoleon winked, less helpfully. 

"With you it's all the time," Paul retorted. "Weren't you seeing that one down at the tailor's on 39th? Jenny something?"

"Janine. And that was more like a...service."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Jimmy asked. 

"Well," Napoleon smirked, "I told her I was being shipped out to parts unknown, date unknown, and return unknown. That I didn't have any family - "

"But we're -" Jimmy objected.

" - and no girl to remember in the trenches - " Napoleon continued. 

" - damn fuzzy memory," muttered Paul. 

" - and as such," Napoleon went on as if he hadn't heard either of them, "she'd be doing me a favor with the charity of her company. Fulfilling one's patriotic duty, in point of fact."

"Oh, geez," Jimmy sighed. He hid his face in his hands, mortified. 

"Her words, not mine." Napoleon shrugged, carelessly.   

"Boy, am I gonna miss you two,” Jimmy grumbled.

"You will," said Paul. "Looks like we’re all gonna be split up after tonight."

"Your bourbon, boys." Betty suddenly reappeared and set the glasses down on the table with a  _ thok _ . Napoleon noticed Jimmy's face color and he refused to look up at her. After she had disappeared again, the three brothers sipped without speaking. Some enterprising couples had gotten up to dance to fast number, laughing and spilling their drinks all over the floor as they whooped and hollered. Paul handed the cigarette back to Napoleon, who took another drag and let it out slowly as the silence stretched between them. 

“You know where you’re stationed yet?” Paul asked him. 

Napoleon nodded. "You?" 

“Not yet,” Paul replied. 

Jimmy looked a little paler as he stared down at his waiting drink. 

"But they got us doing new drills," Paul continued, conversationally. "Jimmy here's pretty damn good at 'em."

"Yeah?" asked Napoleon.

"Yeah," Jimmy smiled, shyly. 

"Krauts are gonna be in a mess of trouble," said Paul, reaching across and slapping Jimmy on the shoulder. Napoleon gave his cavalier tone a sideways glance. Paul met it, but Jimmy didn't notice, still brooding into his drink. 

Napoleon twisted his glass around clockwise on the table. "The way I hear it,” he began after a moment, “things are shaping up. Paul’s right. Besides, all that's supposing you have any Krauts left to fight." 

"Gonna take 'em all out before we get to them, are ya?" Paul asked, amused. 

"Why I joined Airborne in the first place."

Paul and Jimmy looked up, startled by this sudden revelation. Their brother's expression, however, was masked as he took another drink. When he had finished it revealed a wide, cocky smile on his face. 

"Don't worry, Jim," he said, "by the time we're done there won't be a Natzi left in the place."

"There won't be a  _ woman _ left in the place, you mean," Jimmy replied.

Napoleon laughed and Jimmy stood up, seeming heartened. 

“Alright, I’m going to the latrine,” Jimmy announced. “You both stay out of trouble - I don’t wanna have to bail you out on my last night.”

Paul and Napoleon exchanged innocent glances as Jimmy walked away, muttering and shaking his head. 

Paul chuckled once Jimmy was gone. “You remember when he was just a squirt?”

“Still is a squirt.” Napoleon handed back the cigarette. 

“Yeah.”

“Speaking of squirts,”said Napoleon, “you heard from Reggie, lately?” 

“He’s army, now, same as us - except, you know, they got different units for colored folks.” 

Napoleon smiled as he took down more of his drink. “Remember what he said when they told him that?”

With matching grins, Paul and Napoleon recited simultaneously: “‘Sir, I don’t know how whities are gonna react if they see a negro boy fightin’ alongside ‘em. But I can promise you the only reason I’d shoot a white man would be on accident, on account of mistakin’ him for a Kraut.” 

They laughed uproariously.

"Don't think that won him any points," Napoleon said, almost giggling. 

"I don't think it did,” Paul agreed, sobering a little. “Ah, heck. Grew up as poor as we did, didn't matter did it?.” 

Napoleon made a noise of agreement into his drink. In the lull of conversation, Paul’s eyes slid over to the dance floor, where a slow number had drawn out the remaining couples, standing close and rocking gently while a female singer crooned wistfully on the radio. 

"You set a date with Pearl, yet?" Napoleon asked, following his gaze. 

"Mmhm." Paul took another sip of bourbon. "She wants a spring wedding. In a church."

"A church?" 

"Yes, a church. Not all of us are as morally bankrupt as you, Napoleon." 

“Alright, no need to get defensive. Speaking of which…” Napoleon took a little blue box out of his pocket and slid it onto the table. 

“What’s this?”

“Just open it, will ya?”

Paul opened the box with trepidation. Inside, he discovered a stylish silver watch with a high-quality leather band, polished within an inch of it’s life.

“Napoleon…” Paul breathed. 

“Consider it an engagement present.”

Paul gave his younger brother a soft look and cuffed him on the jaw - lightly, this time. 

“You like it?” Napoleon beamed at him, the effect making him look suddenly boyish. 

“I do, but...” Paul frowned. “...how did you afford this?”

Napoleon took another sip by way of reply, smirk sliding back onto his face.

“You didn’t.”

“I didn’t, but I did have some...supplemental income.”

“ _ Napoleon _ …” Paul laughed, a little hysterically,  and wiped a hand over his face. “I can’t accept an  _ engagement present  _ bought will ill-gotten gains!”

“Sure you can - if you take my word for it that nobody is going to miss those gains.”

“You know you don’t have to do stuff like that anymore. We’re U.S. military men, now.”

Napoleon let out a short, derisive laugh. Paul sighed and fingered the watch.

“Keep it,” Napoleon insisted. “Besides, what better memento of me will you get?”

“There is some truth in that,” Paul admitted, ruefully. 

“There’s always  _ some _ truth in what I say.”

"Hey, somebody turn that number up!" someone shouted from the dance floor, causing them to look up. Betty put down a tray of beers and twisted the dial of the radio up. She turned and seemed to be looking over her shoulder at Napoleon, but at that moment Jimmy returned to the table and blocked his line of sight. 

The three of them sat and drank, watching as the couples swayed together, the girls' heads resting on their partners’ shoulders, the soldiers' hands around their waists in turn, a world away under the spell of a voice rich and sweet:

_ I'll be with you _

_ in apple blossom time,  _

_ I'll be with you _

_ to change your name to mine. _

_ One day in May,  _

_ I'll come and say, _

_ Happy the bride the sun shines on today! _

Napoleon raised his glass jauntily. "To my brothers. One infinitely wiser, one infinitely better than me."

"Amen to that," Paul raised his own.

"To brothers," Jimmy joined in, jovially clinking his glass against the two others. 

 

***

 

A few hours later the bar was still packed, servicemen and girls alike squeezing every last hour out of their leave. Paul, a little worse for wear, stood up and pushed his chair back. 

“Alright, kids,” he said, “I promised Pearl I’d stop by later tonight so I’ve gotta split.”

Betty reappeared again, proffering a piece of paper: “Your bill.”

“He’s got it,” said Paul, gesturing toward Napoleon. 

“Hey, what’d I ever do to you?” Napoleon protested. 

“Since you’re so  _ flush _ at the moment...”

Napoleon sighed dramatically, but dug out his wallet. 

“See ya!” Paul waved and headed toward the door. Napoleon and Jimmy raised their hands in farewell. 

“What’d he mean by that?” asked Jimmy. 

“Don’t worry about it.” 

Jimmy looked away, fiddling with a near-empty glass. “You’re not in any trouble, are you?” 

“Since when am I ever in trouble?” 

Betty picked up the check and the money, catching Napoleon’s eye for a moment longer than necessary as she did so. It was then that he noticed a napkin wedged under his coaster. When he was sure Jimmy wasn’t looking, he unfolded it and read in a blue feminine scrawl:

_ You can have both 555 986 6345. _

Napoleon stood. 

"Where're you going?" Jimmy asked. 

"On a date." 

"Guess that means I'm on my own, huh?" Jimmy paused. "Will I see you again before tomorrow?"

Napoleon polished off the remainder of his glass and reached up to fix the lopsided top buttons of his brother’s uniform. "You missed one.”

"Napoleon..." Jimmy sighed, embarrassed. 

Napoleon slapped the side of Jimmy's face, playfully. "If it weren't for me, you two would go around like the slobs you are. See you around, Jim.”

“Take care of yourself....” Jimmy watched as his brother shrugged on his coat.

“I always do.” Napoleon flashed another smile and slipped towards the back door. 

 

***

Outside, it was a chilly spring night with the threat of rain in the air. Still, the weather couldn’t dampen the spirits of the groups of rowdy soldiers and young couples, arm-in-arm, walking (and in some cases, stumbling) down the streets, their laughter echoing off sides of buildings and down the alley where Napoleon stood. He didn’t have long to wait. The back door to the bar opened with a burst of music and conversation as Betty stepped through the threshold. 

“You got a cigarette?” she asked Napoleon. 

“Sadly, I’m all out.” 

Betty shrugged and drew her coat closer around herself over her waitressing uniform. “I don’t normally do this, you know. Go off with guys I just met.”

“Well, I don’t normally do this, either. Here’s the thing, Betty -”

“Hey, you got it right. What’s your name, by the way?”

“Napoleon.”

Betty’s eyebrows went up a little. “Gee. Your mother drunk when she named you?”

“Probably,” Napoleon laughed, his smile growing wider. He leaned a shoulder against the wall while he spoke, a bit of light from the windows catching his angular cheekbones and strong jaw. He really was quite handsome, almost like a recruitment poster - except for that fervent, far-sighted patriotic look - the kind where all the young men stared off past the edges of the pictures looking ready for battle - he didn't have that.  Still, thought Betty, he probably had the pick of anybody that was after him. The fact that he'd singled her out from the crowd...well, it was thrilling and not a little flattering. She found herself talking without realizing it. 

"Sorry. I've been on loads of dates before, you know - not that I'm actin' like it - but just not...like this. It ain’t like I got a lot of free time.” Betty placed her hand on her waist again and affected a cool, careless stance. “I mean, a girl can get a reputation. Not like that would stop me, or anything.”

“Oh, it wouldn’t?” Napoleon hummed, almost musically, as he leaned in closer. Betty found herself leaning back against the brick wall, inviting him to stand closer. 

“I’m...I’m not nervous, or anything like that, if that’s what you’re thinkin - ’”

Napoleon reached over and ran a delicate finger underneath her chin. Betty shivered at the touch, but instead of drawing their faces together as she anticipated, he stood back and explored a silky texture between his fingers. 

"The makeup gives you away, you know,” he said. “How old are you, really?"

Betty gaped at him a moment, then when she had recovered herself, blushed a deep crimson and stubbornly avoided the soldier’s amused, but not unkind gaze.

“Can you even work at a joint like this?" Napoleon mused. 

“Listen, buster,” said Betty, taking a step towards him, “that’s my business, okay? Just who are you to tell me what I should and shouldn't do, huh?” She looked away, blushing again, as if embarrassed by her sudden outburst. "You gotta make ends meet, know what I'm sayin'?"

Napoleon raised his hands in mock surrender. “This isn’t blackmail. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, I just want you to consider talking to Jimmy."

"Jimmy?"

"My brother. The blond who doesn't look old enough for bourbon. You aren't so far apart, you know."

Betty gave him an incredulous look. "You jokin' or something?"

"I've been known to...but not at the moment."

“Why?” Betty demanded, chin jutting up at him. “I’m not a piece of steak, you know. You can’t just pawn me off because ya changed your mind or - ”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Why, then?”

The young man smiled that wide smile again. “Because he isn’t like guys like me.”

“Betty, you done with your break or what? I gotta pee!” another girl from inside called, irritably. 

“Yeah, comin’!” Betty shouted back. 

Napoleon handed her the napkin with an encouraging wink and headed down the alley towards the street. Betty watched him go, chewing her lower lip for a bit before turning to go back inside.

Napoleon strolled easily onto the sidewalk, inhaling the brisk city air. His errand done, he spotted a gaggle of girls outside the theater across the street, flirting with the soldiers who passed them on their way into the bar and then spurning the advances of the bold while they kicked their heels against the benches they sat on. Napoleon smiled, pulse quickening at the promise of a challenge - definitely more his type. Not that there had been anything wrong with Betty, of course. In his considered opinion girls could be friends, sisters, colleagues, and lovers - and all that was fine -  just never all at once. At least, that wasn’t what interested him. 

"Napoleon, I swear I never did know which part of you was bigger - the angel or the devil." 

Startled, Napoleon looked around the corner to find Paul leaning against the exterior of the bar, smoking the last of Jimmy’s cigarettes. Despite his long-suffering tone, he smiled as he spoke. Napoleon looked over his shoulder at the girls. With rakish grin, he ran a hand through his hair to tame it back into place.

"Devil, brother mine. Definitely devil.” 

For a moment, Paul had one of those prophetic flashes of memory that would return to him in the months afterward when he thought about his brothers. At the time, it was such an inconsequential moment that Paul wondered why he had remembered it at all. 

It had been summer, then -  the rain coming down in sheets as the three of them, no older than thirteen at high end, played cards on the porch of an empty house. They drank the beer and smoked the cigarettes Napoleon had pilfered, wrestling and laughing while what could have been Noah's flood drowned the tulips in the garden. All at once, Paul remembered them perfectly. Jimmy's rumpled clothes and peels of protest at unlawful ticking, Napoleon's errant cowlick and unrestrained howls of glee, and the feeling that, for the moment, nothing else mattered very much at all. 

“Give my best to Pearl.” Napoleon waved without turning around. He didn’t see Paul wave back, or see the watch around his wrist, for his thoughts were already elsewhere -  on the short skirts and easy laughs, on his deployment first thing in the morning, on Jimmy and Betty with the hope that she'd give him something to remember. 

 

And Jimmy would remember it. The warmth of their fingertips brushing together as they walked through the park. The way her laugh and her smiles had mellowed out over the course of the evening. The feel of her arm around his as he doggedly protected her from the rain on the way home. How she had looked at him when she had said stay, and the softness of her lips against his. He would be thinking about that while he lay bleeding in the sand, moments after the German artillery shell had blown off his legs. 

 

_ What a wonderful wedding there will be _

_ What a wonderful day for you and me... _

 

"I'm okay, I'm okay! Go on! Push ‘em back!" Paul wouldn't dwell so much on memories as he propped himself up against the sandbags of a machine-gun nest overlooking the beach. Pressing down upon the hole in his stomach, he would, instead, think about the pictures of the little church Pearl had picked out and sent to him. It had been perfect - made of stone and delicate stained glass, nestled somewhere in green country with spring flowers on the trees. He had meant to write to her to say how much he had liked it. 

 

_ Church bells will chime _

_ You will be mine... _

 

Napoleon would be thinking about his brothers, as he slit a Nazi's soldier's throat in the darkness of pre-dawn on the sixth of June. More than half of his unit dead already from the crash, another quarter drowned in the swamps, he focused on taking out as many Germans as he could on the way to the rendez-vous and tried not to think about the landings that would take place only hours from now. The first kill had been easy -  once the shock had worn off and he had emptied his stomach twice over into a ditch - disturbingly so.  A hail of gunfire opened up on the scattered survivors of the 101st. Napoleon rolled out of the way behind a low stone wall while the boy from Kansas got it between the eyes. Wiping the blood from his own face, Napoleon hefted the fallen rifle and stopped the assault with a single shot. 

 

_...In apple blossom time.  _

 

**July, 1964**

 

The air was stifling for a town just off the coast. The open door of the church didn't help any, nor did the incessant fanning of old men and women scattered in the wooden pews. One man, younger than all the rest, sat patiently near the back, taking in the high white stone arches and mottled patterns on the walls from the sun streaming through the stained glass windows. The priest’s words washed over him without meaning, but even a godless man such as he could at least appreciate the craftsmanship of the place. 

It was then that Napoleon felt, rather than saw, someone sit down in the pew behind him. 

“I looked in my shoes this time,” Napoleon announced by way of greeting and without turning around.

“It is not in your shoes,” came the terse, Russian-lilted reply. “It is in your tie.”

“Ah,” Napoleon sighed and frowned at the traitorous article of clothing. After a moment he extracted a Soviet-style tracking device from it with a self-admonishing “tsk.” 

“Waverly made contact,” the Russian continued, down to business as usual. “The schedule has been changed. We will infiltrate tonight at the gala.” 

Napoleon looked at his watch. “Which leaves a ‘luxurious’ five hours for us to prepare.” He flicked the transmitter of his shoulder. The Russian caught it and crossed his arms, sitting back in the pew with an uncomfortable expression on his face. 

“This is not where I expected to find you,” he ventured cautiously after a moment. 

"Thought I'd given you the slip?"

The Russian scoffed. "I thought transmitter had malfunction.” 

Napoleon smiled, wryly.

A swell of music suddenly filled the church. The American rose and filtered into the crowd with the seamless ease of a professional. The Russian removed himself to the back and hovered uncertainly while Napoleon approached the votives beside the altar. Feigning disinterest, the Illya watched without watching as the other spy carefully lit two candles.  

 

They walked in silence along the paved small-town streets back towards the hired car, the Russian with his hands in his pockets, Napoleon with his suit jacket slung casually over his shoulder. Couples walked around, mothers shopped, children played in the shade of the trees, one of their wild shrieks occasionally piercing the low drone of summer insects. The American’s expression was placid and unreadable. 

“What were you really there for?” The Russian asked after a moment. 

“Taking an interest in my personal affairs, Peril?”

“If it might compromise mission, or get me _ shot _ , yes. Otherwise, no.”  

Napoleon chuckled.“Nothing the statute of limitations hasn’t run out on, I promise. I needed a little spending money.” He tapped the pocket of his suit jacket. For a moment the inane notion that the American had spent the afternoon pickpocketing ancient parishioners flitted across Illya’s mind before he realized the more likely scenario. 

“You had a drop in the church.” 

“Lucky for me, no nuns were enterprising enough to pry the loose stone from the back row.” 

Illya decided he did not want to know where the money came from, and doubted the American would tell him, anyway. Although their placement at UNCLE continued for the moment, they both knew their current partnership was tenuous at the very best. At any moment, either of their masters could decide that they didn’t want their best agents afield and working for an independent organization anymore - and that day was likely approaching quickly, as was the one where they might find themselves on the opposite sides of the same line. 

Napoleon stopped and turned to look at the church from where they stood, now a bit in the distance. Illya looked, too. He thought the grey stone facade looked far less welcoming than the inside. Churches, he thought, were a lot like state buildings - meant to be both beautiful and intimidating. Illya noticed that the American wasn’t so much looking at the church as he was  _ through _ it. 

“It hasn’t changed much, even in twenty years.” 

“You were here when the war ended?” 

“Mmhm,” Napoleon turned away and resumed strolling. Illya plodded alongside him in silence that asked no further questions and expected no further answers, his thoughts turning inward. This had to have been one of the first towns liberated from Nazi control during the Western invasion - successful largely because of previous Soviet victories,of course. He chanced a glance at the American, whose hooded eyes and relaxed posture gave little away, as always. 

Though not usually an imaginative man by any stretch, it seemed to Illya that the ghosts of twenty years past were suddenly running down the narrow street towards them, their impossibly young faces stark with fear, guns rapporting and uniforms reeking of sweat and iron. He suppressed a shudder, the images drudging up memories of his first years in the  _ Komsomol _ .

“You should stop scowling, you’re scaring the children,” Napoleon drawled.

With a start, Illya noticed that he was, indeed, scowling, and that a group of doe-eyed school children had withdrawn to the side of the road as they passed, their clothes dripping from having run through a nearby fountain. With supreme effort, the Russian smiled - which only sent them running away in the other direction with much squealing and flailing of limbs. 

“What? I smiled!”Illya protested.

“It wasn’t much of an improvement.”

“I have a  _ nice _ smile.”

“Do you, now?”

“Shut up.” 

Napoleon smirked, but it fell away as they continued walking. The American spy’s expressions were slippery at the best of times, but it lighted upon Illya that the other man’s mood seemed muted. 

Napoleon kicked a pebble aimlessly along, hand in his pocket, as they made their way down the path. “Kids and dogs,” he mused after a moment, “they just seem to know, don’t they?”  

Illya tilted his head to the side as a form of acknowledgement. “Instinct perhaps. But they do not understand beyond this.”

“Oh?”

Illya shrugged again - a favorite gesture. He seemed to search for the correct words, though as a facet of English as a second language or difficulty expressing the sentiment, it wasn’t clear. “There are men who enjoy killing and men who don’t,” he surmised, finally.  

Napoleon threw a surprised glance at the Russian - just a flicker - before turning his gaze upwards at the blue late-afternoon sky. He might have been bird-watching or looking at an interesting cloud if anyone had judged from afar.  

“For both our sakes, Peril, I hope the distinction counts.”

Illya huffed, expression growing chilly. “ _Tovarishch Stalin_ would have said this is moot point.” He paused a moment longer in thought, something other than the automatic response evidently tugging at the edges of his mind. “My mother…”he  added, a little hesitantly, “...might have said differently.”

“Mmm,” Napoleon replied. “My brothers, too."

Thankfully, the American was busy studying some blooming trees by the side of the road, which gave Illya time to cover his startled expression. Neither the plural nor the past tense had escaped him, but he was at a loss to know what to do with them. At that moment, a pretty young country girl in a white sundress walked by and Napoleon smiled at her like a feckless foreign tourist on holiday. Illya let out an exasperated sigh and wrestled with the unreasonable urge to hit him upside the head. Instead, he tossed something at Napoleon’s back, which the latter spy caught deftly with one hand. 

“Keep,” Illya commanded. 

Napoleon rolled the Soviet transmitter between his fingers and regarded the Russian with a curious, if cautious, expression. “What’s the matter, Peril -  don’t think I can take care of myself?” 

“Well,” Illya turned and resumed their trajectory towards the car, “you  _ are  _ a terrible spy.” 

This time when the American laughed it sounded much warmer. Napoleon jogged to catch up and the Russian ignored him. When they had leveled, they fell into an easy concert, unconscious on both their parts but born about by months of work together. The American was humming something under his breath and for a blissful moment their walk was relatively quiet and not unpleasant. 

“You and Gabby have a lovers’ quarrel?” Napoleon asked, suddenly.

_ I should have left him in the church -  _ _ no - I should have killed him in Rome.  _

Napoleon swore he saw the Russian blush, which was quite a sight on a surly six-foot-five KGB agent. Illya clenched his jaw shut and began walking faster, causing the other man to have to trot to keep pace. He had really hoped the cause for his appearance instead of Gabby’s would have been overlooked, but he really should have known little would have the American’s keen perception, as oblivious as he pretended to be.  

“What did you argue about?” Napoleon egged him on. “Whether her belt matched her shoes? Who gets to drive the getaway car?” A vein started to appear on the Russian’s forehead. “Or maybe her  _ provocative _ mission tonight at the gala?” 

The Russian’s cheeks colored again and Napoleon knew he’d hit the mark with the last one. By then, they had reached the car - a little blue Renault Dauphine which Illya could barely fit into - and stopped just short of it. 

“She is stubborn,” said Illya, dismissively. 

“And violent,” Napoleon observed, pointing to Illya’s tie, which was noticeably askew. 

“If she would not be so difficult about everything…”

“Ah.” Napoleon grinned and raised a finger. “But then she wouldn’t be Gabby.” 

Illya crossed his arms, but his sigh conceded the point. He then noticed that the American was looking at him strangely. 

"What is it?" 

"I can't look at that anymore. Hold still." Without pausing to ask permission, or asses risk of personal injury, Napoleon reached for the Russian's necktie and, before Illya could protest, was tugging it loose. 

" _ Tch _ !" Illya spat in annoyance, pulling away from the violation of space- or at least trying to.

"Hold. Still. Or. It. Will. Tear,"  Napoleon warned through clenched teeth. “You need to get better quality things.”

“You spend too much money on clothes,” Illya retorted, though he found himself strangely rooted by Napoleon’s logic, and less strangely by the death grip on his tie.

"She may be an East German mechanic but that's no reason for you look like one when you kiss and make up," Napoleon winked.  

Illya, however, continued to squirm and growled a string of  _ colorful _ obscenities in Russian. 

"Language, Peril,” Napoleon chided as he looped the fabric together, nonchalantly. “I hope that you don't talk like that around miz Teller - she is learning Russian, after all."

"Shut - she is?" Illya stopped resisting, abruptly. 

"Well, unless our next mission drops us back in your motherland, that's the only reason I can think of to explain why she'd be practising it in front of the mirror in the morning."

Illya frowned, trying to sense some sort of deception or tease from the other man. Detecting none, he relaxed minutely, though his mind churned over the implications of this new information. 

"Gave you a lot to think about, apparently,” Napoleon continued, chattily. “Now, there's a nice little cafe right next to the hotel. You should take her for lunch and sit outside. Very romantic.”

“I do not need woman advice from you, Cowboy.” 

"There. Maybe she'll forgive you now.” Napoleon finished the knot - a tasteful half-windsor -  and released him before moving around to the other side of the car. 

"She forgive me? What about I forgive her!” Illya shouted, gesticulating broadly. 

“You’ll forgive her,” Napoleon smirked as he opened the door and got in. The Russian grumbled as he got behind the wheel, but the American noted the lack of vehemence behind it. Illya started the engine.

“Why are you so concerned with what I wear around my neck?” 

“Because your neck is eye-level for me, and if I’m forced to look at something I don’t like it to be hideous.” 

“I am surrounded by impudence.” 

“Must be your natural charm.”

 

The little car pulled away out of the small town and turned onto the main road back to Cherbourg without ceremony. Before preparations for the night’s mission began, Gabriela would announce that she was hungry and was not about to survive the entire evening on champagne alone. Napoleon would make himself scarce, citing an engagement with one of the hotel hostesses, leaving the two other agents to fend for themselves. After a little debate, Illya and Gaby would eat lunch at a cafe down the street with an outdoor area, where they would sit and eventually begin saying more than a few syllables at a time to one another. At a certain, undetermined point, she would smile, and so would he. They would spend the rest of the time talking in soft tones as the breeze off the coast of Normandy lifted the branches of the tree above them, white with late summer bloom. 

 

Epi~ 

 

“Meester Rutger,” whined a feminine voice from deeper within the bedroom, “what is so interesting out there that you don’t pay attention to what is in here?”

Napoleon turned away from the window he’d been leaning out of, back to the gorgeous, long-legged blonde currently splayed out on the sheets. She wore that pout well, as she did  her knock-off Givenchy dress, he thought idly as he approached, unfastening his suit jacket. 

“Just making sure we can keep the window open without being seen,” he replied, easily. “A traveling businessman like me has to be...discreet, if you take my meaning.” 

“I can take more than  your meaning,” she purred, “but not if you do not hurry up.”

“Are all French girls this impatient?” he inquired innocently as he undid his cufflinks 

“What were you looking at? It wasn’t another girl, was it?”

“Would that upset you?”

“Hmm,” she hummed as she smiled, “not if you remain focused.”

“I thought I saw my business associates down the street,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning towards her. 

“How  _ dangereux _ ! 

“Not really,” Napoleon smiled. “I think they’re otherwise engaged.” 

“Let us be engaged, then,” she smiled in return, pulling him towards her. For a moment, she had thought  she had seen something like a happy amusement stir in the handsome American’s face, but whether it was because of his own thoughts or because of her, she couldn’t quite tell. But it was a hot summer afternoon not meant for caring. This, the American seemed to understand well. 

**Author's Note:**

> Vera Lynn's version of the song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JjSNTKh8Xvo


End file.
